by Robin Moore
“Tell him I said he won’t get hurt if he tells the truth,” Stitch said. “Tell him every time he lies this box tells me.” Stitch went back to casual questions, forming a pattern of needle oscillation when the striker told the truth. Ngoc watched the needle intently.
“Do you know of any other VC who have infiltrated the strike force?” Stitch asked. The question was translated. The striker shook his head and said no.
The needle jumped and once again Ngoc was upon the prisoner, backhanding him across the temples.
Stitch waved Ngoc away. He turned dials and a humming noise came from the box. He pumped more air into the rubber tubes around the prisoner’s biceps. “Now,” Stitch said to the interpreter, “you tell this man that if he lies to me again this machine will blow his arm off.”
From the look of terror on the striker’s face there was no doubt he believed the infernal machine was quite capable of blowing his arm off or perpetrating any other form of fiendishness.
Stitch had the names of the other four strikers implicated by the VC Ngoc had questioned the day before. The translator asked by individual name if the other prisoners were VC infiltrators. The suspect, staring aghast at the machine, answered yes four times. The polygraph indicated he was telling the truth.
Ngoc was delighted. Through the interpreter he said, “This is truly a fine machine. Now we don’t waste time. We know exactly who to torture.”
Stitch shook his head. “When you learn to use this machine you don’t need to use torture. I can find out whatever you want to know through the polygraph.”
Ngoc listened to the translation and asked, “What if they refuse to say a word?”
“They’re probably hard-core VC,” Stitch replied. “Chances are you won’t even torture the truth out of them.”
“If they are truly the enemy they should be tortured anyway,” Ngoc retorted.
“Now we get the Oriental mind at work,” Stitch said wearily to the Americans in the room. “If we stay here for twenty years we won’t change them, and God save us from getting like them.” To the translator, Stitch said, “Put this Communist in a solitary cell and let me work on another one.”
While Sergeant Stitch demonstrated the effectiveness of the polygraph, Lieutenant Colonel Train and Captain Kornie were in heated discussion. Much later, Kornie gave me a detailed description of the interview.
“Look, Kornie,” Train began, the moment he and Kornie had seated themselves in the operations room, facing the large map of the local terrain. “I know your record. You’re a hell of a fighter. But whatever you did yesterday morning has got the ambassador and our generals in a serious flap. The Cambodian government complained that American-led Vietnamese troops violated the border and killed or wounded 25 Cambodian civilians. They named Phan Chau as the originating point of this aggression.”
Kornie did not reply immediately to his superior, five years younger and vastly less experienced in unorthodox warfare. Train puffed on his cigar and Kornie tapped a cigarette out of his pack, lit it, and sat back waiting.
“I don’t really believe you’d violate the border without telling us, Kornie,” Train primed. “Apparently the Cambodian complaint was informal. They didn’t make it public nor are they going to SEATO or the United Nations. But they said that if the United States and Vietnam do not remove the irresponsible officers who have no regard for the sovereignty of Cambodia, then Cambodia will ask for help from wherever they can get it to protect their citizens from American-inspired marauders.” Train looked at Kornie sharply. “That means inviting in North Vietnam and Red China. Now what did happen?”
Kornie stood up and walked to the map. “In the first place, sir, if my camp had been attacked last night on schedule we would have been overrun. When we let the Vietnamese corps commander take away my 250 Hoa Hao strikers, they took the only troops I had besides the Cambodes that I could be certain were not infiltrated by Viet Cong sympathizers.”
“Kornie,” Train began, “you know what General Co said.”
Kornie nodded, “He was afraid that Hoa Hao colonel might unite his men in a power play. So he broke up all Hoa Hao units. But out here, with a damned VC regiment sitting safely across the border building up to hit me, I could count on the Hoa Hao to fight the Communists and be loyal to me.”
Train growled something inaudible and studied the burning end of his cigar. “Sir,” Kornie continued, “when I lose the Hoa Hao I got only a company of Cambodes besides the Vietnamese strikers. I got a camp to defend that is half finished. We are vulnerable. We don’t get the concertina until the day before yesterday. Even now we got no mines, no booby traps outside our wire. Phan Chau is supposed to be the most important border surveillance camp in this sector. We are the biggest deterrent to the Communists trying to get into the Mekong Delta through these hills.” Kornie rapped the map with a big fist.
“The Viet Cong want us out of here, sir. If we finish the camp’s defenses they cannot take Phan Chau. But if they hit us now, when we are weak, while they got infiltrators in our strike force, they stand a damned good chance of overrunning us and destroying Phan Chau.”
Kornie stopped talking for a moment, then continued. “Between the Hoa Haos and the Cambodes, even with the defenses not done, we could fight off two, maybe three battalions of VC. But because of Vietnamese politics I lose my real fighting force. Phan Chau is going to be attacked, sir,” Kornie said forcefully. “Every day agent reports say we are in for it. Yesterday we catch a striker cutting barbed wire. He tells us the attack was planned for last night. And only Christ, maybe in this case Buddha, knows how many strikers in this camp are VC.” He watched Train intently to see if the words were making an impression. Train puffed his cigar.
“Do you agree, sir,” Kornie continued, “that I had to do something to head off this attack?”
Train took the cigar out of his mouth. “Perhaps, Kornie. But did you have to violate the border and cause an incident?”
“Sir, I did what I had to do to save my camp!”
“All right, Kornie,” Train said. “Tell me everything. Don’t leave out a single detail.”
“Right, sir.” Kornie sat down again and for twenty minutes explained the operation. Train sucked hard on his cigar as he concentrated on Kornie’s story. When it was over the colonel leaned back, an expression somewhere between pain and disbelief on his face. He ground out his cigar viciously.
“Captain, that is the most audacious, unorthodox, and irresponsible operation that any man in any command of mine has ever pulled. My God, Kornie, you are playing with already-inflamed international politics.”
“But sir, it worked,” Kornie argued. “Not only we hurt the VC and the KKK bandits, we stall off the attack. Even we get hit tonight, in the last twenty-four hours we doubled our defensive capabilities. We got claymore mines out at least, and one or two other little tricks for the Communists when they come. My men, the demo sergeant most of all, been working without sleep twenty-four hours.”
“Kornie, you know you can’t go off attacking across borders, hiring bandits, acting like”—he sputtered—“like the CIA. We’re part of the United States Army.” He picked up the green beret on the table beside him. “Do you think this hat gives you some kind of special license to go off on your own, conduct operations that may endanger the peace of the world?”
“Sir, I’ve been in Special Forces almost ten years. All that time we were trained to get special jobs done any way we can. And I was on loan to the Agency for a year. I know what I can and what I cannot do to get the job done.”
Then, after a short pause: “It takes time to be a Special Forces officer. You will see, sir.”
Nonplussed, Train pulled another cigar out of the pocket of his jungle fatigues, bit the end off, and lit up. Slowly he exhaled a puff of smoke, trying to decide just what to do about this difficult subordinate. “Kornie,” he said finally, “I have to go to Saigon tomorrow and I’d like you to come with me.”
“But, sir,
we expect attack any day or night. I must be here, at least until the attack is over.” He thought a minute. “We are both in trouble if I am away from my post when it is overrun.”
Train considered the situation. Before he could answer there was a knock at the door. “See who it is,” Train snapped.
Kornie opened to a worried Lieutenant Schmelzer, followed by Lieutenant Cau. “Excuse me, sir,” Schmelzer said to Train, “but this may be important.”
“Go ahead, Lieutenant.”
“Right, sir. We were interrogating the prisoners when a Vietnamese sergeant came in saying that two strikers on barbed-wire detail deserted. He had their names and Sergeant Stitch asked the man he was interrogating with the polygraph if they were VC sympathizers. The answer was yes.”
Kornie turned to Train. “You understand what this maybe is, sir? If the deserters tell the VC we are grabbing infiltrators, they might attack tonight while they still got people on the inside.”
“Sir!” Schmelzer interjected. “One of the strikers we questioned said he thought the attack would come tonight. They all said it was planned for last night.”
Kornie shot a look at Train and then ordered Schmelzer to forget the interrogation. “Get as many more claymore mines out as you can. Tell Rodriguez all his systems must be working before dark. I want a 50 per cent alert until midnight, full alert for the rest of the night. Let the men who have the least sleep go to bed after supper.”
Schmelzer and Cau left the operations room.
“Colonel,” Kornie said, “let me stay here until the attack comes or we get our defenses so good the VC don’t try to take the camp. We are in trouble now.”
“Why did you let yourself get into this bind, Kornie?”
The captain struggled to keep his patience. “Sir, my Hoa Haos were taken away on a day’s notice. If you check my requests you see that for last two days I am begging for two companies of Vietnamese Marines, Rangers, or paratroopers to help us hold until the camp is completed.”
“All right, Kornie, you stay until the camp is secure. But make sure the job takes no more than a week. You and I have a date in Saigon.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now, let’s put the intelligence section on the chopper and get them back to the B detachment.”
“And you, sir?”
“I’ll stay overnight.”
“Sir,” Kornie protested, “even after what we did yesterday, we expect an attack tonight.”
“Yes, Captain. I suspect the VC have all the reinforcements they need right in Cambodia.” And with finality he said, “I will be here if they do hit Phan Chau tonight.”
4
Lieutenant Colonel Train and I had a few brief words at 5:00 P.M. The Huey was waiting to take off with the intelligence, section and the VC infiltrators, who were tied with wire and lying face down on the floor of the helicopter.
Lieutenant Colonel Train wanted me deported from the potential battle scene, and I had to remind him we had put in three months together at Fort Bragg and that he knew I was trained for this sort of thing. “Also” I said as a clincher, “I’m here with permission from the commander of Special Forces. If I get myself zapped that’s tough, but it’s my job to chance it.”
Train, Kornie, and I saw the chopper off, then returned to the camp. At the outer perimeter of the concertina Kornie supervised the closing of the barbed-wire barricade as we went through. He repeated the process again at the inner gate.
There was a faint coolness between Train and Kornie at supper, but the B-team CO was every inch the commander who loved and admired his troops and was happiest “when in the field.” He could be personal with them without encouraging undue familiarity.
After supper the weapons sergeant brought Train a pistol belt and harness hung solidly with ammunition pouched. “There’s four hundred rounds of AR-15 ammo on the belt, sir, and more in the mortar bunkers.”
Kornie, the inexhaustible Viking, finally admitted that he hadn’t slept in almost two days and asked Train’s permission to be excused until midnight. So Train and I accompanied Lieutenant Schmelzer on his round of inspections along the walls.
“You graduated from the Point?” Train asked the lieutenant.
“Yes, sir. ’Fifty-eight.”
“I thought I saw it on your record. I was class of forty-eight. Had three years enlisted service during the war.” Train smiled at the young lieutenant. “You’re about ready to make captain. I suppose you’ll be going to a more conventional Infantry unit when you finish the Special Forces assignment?”
“I wouldn’t go in any straight-leg outfit if I could help it, sir. I’m going to try and keep extending in Special Forces.”
Train shook his head. “You’re young, Schmelzer. You have the makings of a fine career. But none of us can afford to do more than two tours at most in Special Forces. After six years your thinking gets unorthodox. After nine years you’re typed. You’ll be lucky to retire a bird colonel.”
“I know staying in Special Forces has slowed up a lot of careers, but I believe in it, sir. My wife believes in it, too. She’s with me all the way,” Schmelzer added proudly. “My father was Regular Army and he feels the same way you do but wars are changing. We’ll either be fighting against guerrillas like we are here, or we’ll be guerrillas—maybe in Cuba or Eastern Europe, probably pretty soon now in North Vietnam.” Schmelzer excused himself and mounted the key northwest bunker.
“Fine young officer,” Train observed. “He’ll work out well after his Special Forces service is behind him.”
We waited for him to come down. “How is it, Lieutenant?”
“They’re up there, sir, wide awake on that machine gun. I just hope they’re ours.”
“Why wouldn’t they be?” Train asked sharply. “Major Tri—my counterpart at the B team—has full confidence in his men here and the strike-force personnel under them.”
“Yes, sir,” Schmelzer replied dutifully, but doubt showed in his voice.
Suddenly I felt tired. “If you fellows will excuse me, I think I’ll grab a few hours’ sleep. I’ll be ready at midnight, Lieutenant. You can put me anywhere you need an extra gun.”
“We’ll wake you up,” Schmelzer promised. “Full alert for all Americans after midnight. Captain Lan won’t agree to more than 50 per cent alert for the Vietnamese. I guess he’s afraid he’ll have to stay up all night too.”
“Schmelzer, you should be more careful how you talk about your Vietnamese counterparts,” Train said. “Major Tri tells me his officers are very sensitive about being depreciated by us.”
“Yes, sir,” I heard Schmelzer say as they walked off. “But you do have to watch them, sir.”
Sergeant Bergholtz shook me awake after midnight and told me that the captain wanted me in the operations room. There I found Kornie, a tired but resolute Lieutenant Colonel Train, and Lieutenant Schmelzer looking as fresh and eager as though he’d just risen from a full night’s sleep. “Looks like we maybe get hit,” Kornie was saying, when I came in. “There are lights we never seen all around us—fires, flashlights, signal flares. If they attack we radio the B team for Air Force flare ships to light up the area.”
“Any place you want me?” I asked.
“You go with Bergholtz and Falk. They take over a 60-mm. mortar position and tell you what to do.”
“Right.”
“Ready to go, sir?” Bergholtz asked me.
“Any time.”
They led me out of the operations room across the parade ground to a round sandbagged bunker between the American and Vietnamese headquarters. The mortar bunker was near the west wall—the wall facing the border from which the attack was expected. It had the least amount of open terrain, about three hundred yards from the outer defense perimeter to the scrub-brush and rocky base of the hills.
“Can you pull increments?” Bergholtz asked.
“Sure. Just tell me what charge you want.”
“We’ll probably be dropping them pret
ty close. Charge two. Your other job is to make damned sure none of our own strikers get near us if there’s an attack. They might be VC and toss a grenade in with us.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open.”
“Right. And if you hear anything heavy fall in here,” Bergholtz said as we climbed over the sandbags, “yell grenade and we’ll bail the hell out.”
“Do we have any Vietnamese in this crew?”
“Yeah, they’re still resting. But if the fireworks start they’ll be in here. We’ll identify them.”
Falk indicated the wooden crates of mortar shells and we pulled two of them out of the depths of the heavily sandbagged ammunition section of the bunker and began opening cardboard tubes. On each shell we pulled the increments—little pouches of powder—from the tail fins, leaving just two which would give the shell almost minimum-range propulsion. The other box was left, with its rounds on full charge for longer-range shelling.
Captain Kornie, closely attended by Lieutenant Colonel Train, stopped by the bunker on one of his constant inspection rounds. When he left, Bergholtz and Falk discussed in low tones the possibilities of an attack that night. Falk, as intelligence sergeant, said all evidence pointed to the VC hitting. Bergholtz countered that the VC simulate preparations to hit camps all over Vietnam just to keep the Americans shaken up.
“I’ll bet you 1,000 piastres to 500 we don’t get hit tonight,” Bergholtz said.
Falk looked up from a mortar round with interest. He was about to answer when an angry rattle shook the air overhead. Before Falk could answer Bergholtz cried, “You took too long, Babe. Bet’s off.”
The yell of “mortars” passed across the bunkers. I threw myself down next to the bunker wall. There was a violent explosion just behind us, followed by several more as a barrage of shells crashed eastwards across the camp.
“WP!” Falk cried. The flames from the white phosphorus rounds started setting fire to the buildings. Confused shouts came from the strike-force barracks to our rear. To our left, near the American longhouse, stood one of the Cambodians’ barracks. In the flickering light of the fires I saw the Cambodes throwing combat harnesses over their shoulders as they rushed out and split into two sections: one went to the north wall, the other to the south.